


The Thing With Feathers

by CailinNollaig



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family, Hope, Loss, Love, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CailinNollaig/pseuds/CailinNollaig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now, it seems like it's all slipping away from her. Hermione tries – god, does she try – but it's slipping from her fingers, the image of her family already becoming frayed. It's all her fault. Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ronald Weasley have been trying to have a baby for two years now. Two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yellow Walls

_When you said your last goodbye, I died a little bit inside.  
I lay in tears in bed all night, alone without you by my side._

_"All I Want" - Kodaline._

* * *

She's never failed at anything before. Not at anything important, anyway. Hermione has always deemed her failure with flying, Quidditch and sports to be generally inconsequential. This, however… This is different.

This isn't inconsequential, it's pretty bloody important.

Since the war ended, they've all discussed when they would have families. They imagined the family barbeques, the amusing hijinks and if they could create a new era of Marauders. Although, honestly, Hermione had never been all that encouraging about that last one.

Now, it seems like it's all slipping away from her. Hermione tries – god, does she try – but it's slipping from her fingers, the image of her family already becoming frayed. It's all her fault. That is, genuinely, the worst part in all this. She can't secretly blame Ron, she can't sigh about bureaucracy or rules, because it's just her fault. Hermione Granger-Weasley and Ronald Weasley have been trying to have a baby for  _two years_ now. Two years.

Hermione sits in the empty room now, feeling like she's sitting in a tomb. Yellow, mocking walls smile down on her. Shapes of various magical animals leap and bound across the wallpaper, all silently managing to make fun of her failure. She closes her eyes firmly, inhaling shakily. She breathes out, ignoring how uneven the sound is, and tries not to let herself break down.

Opening her eyes again, she glances down at the toy in her lap. A soft, smiling brown bear sits in her hands. The comfort the toy brings is almost wrong. She should be tearing it to pieces, but all Hermione wants to do is hold it tighter. She does this by clutching it to her chest, hoping it will somehow steady the rapid beating of her heart, the wrenching despair bubbling in her chest.  _Exhale again, Granger, exhale._

Everyone thinks Hermione Granger (she kept her name after she married, despite everyone's expectations. People still insist on calling her Hermione Weasley, and she hates it.) is the career-driven, ambitious, anti-maternal figure who hasn't got a desire for children. The truth is so  _wrong_ that even she tries to deny it.

Hermione Granger has always wanted children. Her hard-ass, stubborn, ambitious nature is part of her personality, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want her family. She wants to have a kick-ass career, but she still wants to have a little mini-Ron and Hermione running around. Why do people seem incapable of recognising those two things aren't mutually exclusive?

It isn't career  _or_ family. She wants both. And godammit, she is Hermione Granger, if she wants both, she'll get it.

It's a huge blow when the one thing –  _the one person –_ she thought wouldn't block her path, does. Herself.

At this thought, a tear runs down her face, and Hermione curses it. She can't let the floodgates open.

"Hermione?" Oh, she would recognise that voice anymore. Even the sound of his warm timbre makes her want to cry, so she ignores him. She hopes he'll take it as a sign to go away. As Hermione feels him come sit beside her, she remembers that he would have never left. That's Harry; reliable, dependable, caring Harry.

He wraps an arm around her wordlessly, and she leans her head on his shoulder. They remain like this for quite some time, her eyes firmly on the little teddy. After a few more minutes, Hermione finds the courage to look around the room.

They had spent hours decorating the spare room. The excitement had taken hold too quickly – she had, for one of the rare moments in her life, let emotion and anticipation take over. She had that little voice in her head, that cautious warning,  _"Be careful, Hermione, you know what happened last time," -_ but as if she would listen.

She, Ron, Ginny and Harry had spent all weekend doing their spare room up. A pale gender-neutral yellow was splashed on the walls, Ginny had enthusiastically stuck stickers of hippogriffs and dragons along the edges and Hermione had put away any toys/clothes they had. Hermione and Ginny then spent the next few hours talking about baby names while Ron and Harry built the crib, grumbling the entire time.

_Too soon,_ she thinks, the voice quiet even in her own head. Sadness grips at her again then, and this time, the tears come unbidden. Even though she wills them not to, her shoulders shake, her lip trembles and she's suddenly sobbing in her best friends arms.

"It's okay," He whispers softly, stroking her hair, "It'll happen. I know it'll happen."

Hermione sucks in air, trying to speak while bawling her eyes out, "You—you don't – don't know that," the ending becomes a wail, her voice failing her again. She's so tired of this.

She's exhausted, truth be told.

He holds her tighter, "I do know that. I believe good things come to good people, and you and Ron… Well, you're the best of people." Harry says quite simply. She knows he believes the words, and she's knows to some extent they're true, but logically – and she's got to be logical – he doesn't know anything about her reproductive system.

The miscarriages are her fault. It's her body that is rejecting the idea of pregnancy, it seems. Ron's swimmers find their way there no problem.  _She's the problem._

"You know…" She can tell he's hesitating about his next words. From that alone, Hermione knows he's about to mention Ron. "You know he's just as upset as you… He'll be home any time now, I'm sure. He—he's not going to do something drastic."

"Like divorce me?" The words leave her mouth before she can stop them. She hadn't even wanted to acknowledge or think about that fear on her own, never mind out loud with Harry. Speaking it out loud makes the reality of it all the more real, all the more genuine, and she sniffs loudly.

He exhales sharply, "No, Hermione, of course not. Don't be like that."

She knows he's right. She's being silly, of course she's being silly – they don't know that she won't eventually get pregnant and carry to term. When they do know that, when some doctor finally tells her it's hopeless, there will be a Ron shaped hole in the wall.

He wants a family. Hermione knows he's always wanted a family; he grew up with six siblings, it's home to him.

She doesn't respond to Harry.

The blood this morning was just another episode in the ongoing nightmare that is her life. She didn't even wake Ron for some twenty minutes. She simply sat there, staring ahead, wondering when it was going to get easier. She knew the drill, the procedure –  _"oh, I'm so sorry, Ms, you miscarried."_

Worst of all, she's not just a failure, she's a failure as a  _woman._ Hermione can't even manage this one, basic reproductive mechanism that all humans are meant to be able to do. It's their purpose on the earth;  _to reproduce._

It's some cruel twist of irony that she's struggled and strived all her life to be a success, and the one thing she figured a guarantee, makes her feel like the biggest failure in the world.

"You're not a failure, you know." He says, speaking for the first time in a few minutes. Hermione doesn't bother reacting. "And I'm sorry." She hates when people say that. What does it even mean? He didn't push her down the stairs, there's no reason for him to be sorry.

She untangles herself from him and stands, unable to bear one more minute in the room. "I think you should go now."

Harry looks like he's about to protest, hand outstretched to halt her in her steps. Hermione turns, forces a very weak smile, and whispers sincerely, "Thank you, Harry."

He's still her best friend after all these years; still the messy-haired boy saving her from a troll. He doesn't look much different either, save for a few more inches and his face being a little more refined. It's strange to think of  _him_ as a father, but it's true.  _Her_ Harry, the moody, sometimes irrational, strong, caring Harry is a Dad. Someone calls him Dad.

James calls him Dad. It's a wonderful and strange thing; he calls Hermione "Aunt". She wonders how she earned that title.

Hermione's drawn back to the present when Harry touches her arm, his eyes soft and sympathetic. He kisses her gently on the cheek, and leaves.

The front door shuts. Hermione Granger bursts into tears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione massages her temple, not in the mood for this, “I know you didn’t plan it, Ginny. How wonderful for you. You get pregnant even when you’re not trying,” She says brightly, sarcastically.

_Excuse me for a while, while I'm wide-eyed  
_ _And I'm so down, caught in the middle._

> _"Strong"  - London Grammar._
> 
> * * *

 

Time has been dragging. Dragging in the kind of way Hermione has to drag James when they’re leaving the toystore. Dragging in the kind of way a Friday afternoon does.

Ron didn’t come home last night. She assumes he stayed at Harry and Ginny’s, but the thought doesn’t comfort her. In all truth, Hermione’s anguish has long since turned to anger. Part of her feels sorry for Ron, with the way she’s going to castrate him when he comes home. Second thoughts, she needs those parts, maybe a good ‘ole spider in the bed will do the trick.

Psychological torture is, after all, the most effective.

She’s been in work since half six this morning. The night was spent tossing and turning, sniffling and crying, pacing and sitting completely, perfectly still. How could Ron leave her to do this _alone?_ That’s always his answer – run. When things get difficult, when times are emotional, Ron Weasley makes a run for the hills.

She once said he had the emotional range of a tea spoon, and she was quite right at the time, even if she was sixteen. Hermione’s sixteen year old self was spot on.

When there’s even a tablespoon of emotion involved, he bolts. Communication and emotive expression isn’t exactly is forte – unless you’re looking for someone to crack a joke, then her dear husband is the life and soul.

Feeling guilty at her internal thoughts, Hermione puts down her quill. She’s studying recent cases of animal abuse, and more to point, elvish abuse. She doesn’t really need all this on top of the harrowing stories she reads daily.

Automatically, Hermione places her hand on her stomach. The flatness of it makes her insides churn. Many women would love a flat stomach, but for Hermione, it’s just a sore reminder. _You’ve no life growing inside you, there’s no miracle at work here._

Seeing as it’s six o’clock, Hermione begins to gather her things up. She’s moving especially slowly today. Her movements are sluggish, so unlike the brisk quality that usually accompanies her movements. Hermione is just about ready when someone steps into her office.

Isn’t it strange how you come to recognise a person’s footsteps; that the sound of someone’s footfalls can become a method of recognising them?

“Ron, what are you doing here.” Her tone is flat.

She can hear him shuffle a bit behind her and closing her door. Hermione has her back to him as she puts her coat on. She is quite ready to hear him grovel though.

Turning, Hermione instantly feels a little guilty. His skin is a sickly pale, the red hair stark and alarming against it. Yesterday mornings clothes still sit on his body, and he appears almost uncomfortable in them. He obviously didn’t bother showing up to work today.

His eyes are bloodshot, too, and Hermione wonders how just one night can have that much havoc on a persons appearance. He’s still an asshole though.

“We have to talk,” He says quietly, and this takes Hermione back. Usually, he would repeatedly apologise, even throwing himself on the ground in front of her if he’s feeling extremely dramatic.

A delightful mixture of fear and bile rise in her throat. Hermione swallows thickly, “Um, yes… I guess we do.” _Points to Hermione for eloquence. Well done, Hermione._

They take seats on the couch in the far corner of her office. The workspace she currently occupies is probably larger than needs be, but she hardly has cause for complain. It is, of course, smaller than Harry’s, but it comfortably fits a desk, two chairs as well as a coffee table and sofa.

The black, gleaming leather feels uncomfortable now. The sound it makes as she gets settled resonates around them, highlighting the tension and the silence between the couple.

“I—I… I just can’t do this, Hermione.”

Something drops in her – in her – in her _something._ Is it her stomach? Her chest? She’s not sure, but suddenly, Hermione thinks she’s going to hurl. “Excuse me?”

Ron scratches the back of his head, appearing uneasy.  _Good. “_ This is hell. Don’t lie, Hermione, I know it’s hell for you, too. Why are we putting ourselves through this? We’re young, it’s not as if we have to do this now.”

She’s thankful the fury from earlier is making a comeback. Hermione has to mentally count to ten, reigning in her temper expertly. If he’s throwing around things like divorce, Hermione will enjoy throwing an object at his head. Her voice is ice when she speaks next, and Hermione knows it’s the tone of voice that unsettles her husband the most. Calm and icy.

“Ron. If you are suggesting that you, after me miscarrying our child and spending two days and a night alone, divorce me upon first seeing me, then I must warn you on your impending doom.”

He sags back against the couch, apparently aghast, and his face contorts to one of horror, “ _Divorce you?”_

Not feeling so brave anymore, Hermione falters, “Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

Ron rubs his hands across his face, almost as if he’s exasperated. As if he has a right to be. “Merlin, no, Hermione, of course not…”

Relief sets in then, and she welcomes it like a breeze on a summers day; welcome liberation from this oppressive heat.

She takes a minute to replay their conversation, wondering what on earth he had been talking about. Hermione has been good at reading Ron throughout their relationship, but sometimes, it’s hard to follow his train of thoughts. She usually thinks it’s because the train sometimes veers off the tracks.

Hermione slowly realises what he’s talking about, and somehow, the nausea returns, “You—you want to… Wow… I wasn’t expecting this.”

He nods, but doesn’t offer any more words. Hermione supposes there aren’t any. She knows exactly what he’s feeling and what he means, there really isn’t anything he can add or elaborate on. This is Hermione’s third miscarriage.

She remembers the first time, three years previously, when they read her little, white, muggle stick and bounced around their tiny bathroom. She remembers the first wake up call, sitting blankly on the hospital bed, wondering what this kind of hell was.

She had known many hells – she had been attacked by trolls, dementors, werewolves, Death Eaters, _Voldemort –_ but this was a new hell. It was some fresh hell that had redefined all her conceptions of fear, failure and torture. Hermione has endured real torture; she’s not sugar coating her words.

Hermione risks a look at Ron, who is patiently waiting. It’s not a phrase one would normally associate with Ron. She realises then that this image of Ron – the wreck – isn’t so new at all. She’s seen it many times before. Hermione doesn’t actually remember the last time Ron and her had a genuinely good time. She doesn’t remember the last time they went out, or had sex, just to be with each other.

Hermione forgets the giddy feeling. She forgets the surprise fluttering, the little gifts, the secret giggles that only they knew the meaning of. How did not she realise that while she may still have her husband, she was rapidly losing her best friend?

“You’re right,” She breathes, the words surprising even her.

Ron has the same reaction, narrowing his eyes slightly in confusion, “What?”

She has to laugh at this, and makes a reminder to say those words more often. If only he was right more often. “You’re right, this is tearing us apart. Let’s take a break from _trying_ for a while. It’s only making things worse.”

A large grin settles across his face, “That’s the best thing you’ve said all day.” He moves to hug her tightly, and she feels him inhale. They sit like that for a while. He whispers in her ear then, the feeling ticklish and pleasant, “I’m sorry.”

Hermione nods against him, not bothering to angrily hex him like she wanted to earlier. They pull apart, and his hands fall to hers. He squeezes them, “If it’s meant to happen, it will.”

Hermione wishes she could believe like he does. Instead, she smiles, and leans forward to kiss him.

* * *

 

**_Four Months Later_ **

Family, warmth and contentment is always what comes to Hermione’s mind when she’s at the burrow. Most of Ron’s siblings are good friends of Hermione’s, and their children are as precious to her as her own will be.

Well, maybe not quite – James will, but he’s an exception.

Molly, though she often grates on Hermione’s last nerve, is welcoming no matter what. She is a true mother hen, fretting over all of her chicks, including Hermione, every week when they come for dinner. Sunday brunch or dinner, depending on the Sunday, is something of a ritual in the borrow now. All of the Weasley children try their best to take a breather from their busy lives every week and visit their mothers house.

It usually consists of Bill and Fleur, and their daughter Victoire; Percy and his wife, Audrey; George and his wife, Angelina; Ron and Hermione; Ginny, Harry, James and Teddy. Andromeda and Charlie occasionally make appearances, but they’re rare enough. Charlie is the bachelor he ever was, and it seems every time she meets him, he has a different woman on his arm. Hermione doesn’t think he’ll ever settle down. Then again, he’s still young.

They’re often among the last to arrive, and it’s all down to Ron and his insistence that they never get there early. He doesn’t like being able to smell his mother’s cooking, and not eat it. Never underestimate Ron and his stomach, Hermione has certainly learned not to. The Burrow is bustling with people when they arrive today at 3pm, and Ron receives a thwack on the shoulder from Molly when she answers the door.

“What time do you call this, Ronald? Hello, Hermione, dear, you’re _glowing,”_ She says gently, and Hermione resists the urge to gag. As much as she loves the woman, she’s as subtle as a gun. Molly thinks if she drops enough hints about grandchildren, pregnancy and the ‘wonderful miracle of life’, Ron and Hermione will procreate. Little does she know.

They never made the mistake of telling her again after the first time. Hermione’s heartache wasn’t lessened when she came to the Burrow the Sunday after her miscarriage, ready to pass on the wretched news, and there was a party in the back garden for them. _Congratulations Hermione and Ron, indeed…_

Instead of how replying how she’d like (“Why, thank you, Molly. It’s probably the highlighter – you should try some make-up, it’ll clear those wrinkles right up.”) she smiles, “Thanks, Molly. Guess it must be the lovely weather.”

The older woman beams, almost looking at Hermione as if she was a child, and then proceeds to talk to her like one, “Maybe, dear.  Inside now, the two of you, dinner will be in five minutes.”

Ron groans, and leans into Hermione, “Why is she giving out then? Dinner isn’t even _ready.”_ She elbows him subtly, but tries to hide her grin.

The living room is carnage, as usual, as Victoire and Teddy chase each other around the room. They make loud crashing noises while they run, as if playing on some sort of battlefield. Spying the makeshift wands (sticks) in their hands, Hermione sees that they are indeed playing a duelling, battle game. George and Ginny are speaking animatedly, probably about something pranking related. Harry plays on the floor with James, his eyes following the one-year olds every move with amusement. Percy and Audrey are in the corner of the room, keeping to themselves as usual. If Ginny and Molly thought Fleur was bad for an in-law, they were seriously knocked for two when Audrey came along. She’s like Percy in all the worst ways, and honestly one of the most stuck up people Hermione has ever met. Arthur looks like making conversation with them is painful.

She spots Bill then, who Ron had immediately moved to talk to. Something about a curse he recently encountered on a case. As he approaches, Fleur says hello and then moves to the kitchen to help Molly. Ron, of course, asks with concern if she needs any help.

Fleur waves him off with a laugh, but the image stays with Hermione. That’s what it would be like if _Hermione_ was pregnant. Loving and concerned Ron would put his hand on her arm, and his eyes would meet hers, as if trying to read whether she really would be okay with setting the table. Hermione would laugh him off, complaining with secret delight about how overprotective he is.

An intense sadness hits her then, and she pinches the bridge of her nose in an effort to control it. Something latches onto her leg, and Hermione opens her eyes to find little James hanging on to her. Hermione smiles brightly, unable to help it, and scoops him up into her arms, “Hello, my little man, have you missed me?”

He nods dutifully in response, accompanying it with a toothy grin. Hermione waggles her fingers at him, “I wonder… have you missed me… enough?” She says dramatically, and begins tickling him lightly. Loud, uninhibited laughter erupts from the baby. It warms Hermione heart, and she never thought she could feel this kind of love. She had thought that her and Ron’s love is the ultimate love, but it’s not – there’s a special love shared between a parent and child. Hermione has a _piece_ of that with James.

She stops tickling him, “Okay, I’ll stop, but can I have a kiss?” Her godson, her little man, leans forward obediently and plants a slobbery, wet kiss on her mouth. Hermione laughs, but James doesn’t wait long before he starts pointing at the toys on the ground.

“Yes,” He’s saying, and with those big brown eyes, Hermione has no choice but to comply.

Ginny sits down beside her soon after, “You’re worse than Harry; can’t say no to those big brown eyes.”

“Harry can’t say no because they’re your eyes,” Hermione says, winking at her friend. She and Ginny grew apart initially after the war, but once the younger girl graduated, their friendship quickly resumed. They even lived together for a few years. She and Harry were only separated for a short amount of time while she was touring, but they quickly discovered that they’d rather be together and apart than not together at all.

It’s all happiness and light-hearted chatter, and then, out of nowhere, Ginny is grasping Hermione’s hand. Everyone else has started to move into the dining room, but Ginny’s hold on her hand is too much to let go. Hermione looks at her, wondering, and the red-heads gaze is meaningful. She knows what conversation is about to occur. “Are you okay?”

Hermione wants to sigh, but she doesn’t want to hurt Ginny’s feelings – she’s only trying to be a good friend. She settles on nodding, squeezing her friends hand back, and reassuring her, “Better than ever.”

They share a small smile and head into the dining room for dinner. Hermione takes her usual spot next to Ron, and gleefully hands James over to his Dad. She loves the boy, but she doesn’t want to have to deal with his reluctance to eat vegetables unless she absolutely has to.

Harry sits across from her, with James in between him and Ginny. This leaves James sitting across from Ron, which is a recipe for disaster. Everyone sits in families and couples, and Hermione wonders what it’ll be like when George and Percy have children – maybe they’ll be able to squeeze Ron and Hermione in at the end of the table.

“This looks amazing, Molly,” Harry says, and Hermione wants to roll his eyes – he’s always so polite. He’s the ultimate son-in-law, and the perfection Molly had always wanted for her daughter. Even though he pays her this compliment _every week,_ Molly still looks fit to burst with pride.

Ron nods, “He’s right, Mum. Now, can we please eat already?”

A pregnant Fleur taps on her glass, “I am sorry, Ronald, but may I please have a word first?”

Forced to comply, Ron pauses, his potato laden fork in mid-air, and puts it back down wordlessly. He raises his hand then, as if to say, please continue. Fleur nods, shooting him one of her dazzling smiles, and looks around the table. She is truly the epitome of the perfect pregnant woman. She has none of the negatives, like unwanted sweating, discomfort or a lot of weight… She’s _glowing._ Hermione didn’t think pregnant women actually glowed until she met Fleur.

The blonde continues, “Thank you. I would like to thank Molly for ze dinner, eet iz tres belle.” Oh, yes, did she forget to mention? Fleur now likes to weave French into her conversations. For Victoire, apparently.

“We would just like to tell you all zat we are ‘aving a girl!” The entire table bursts into applause, Molly getting up to hug her son tightly.

Arthur raises his glass, “To Bill and Fleur!” Everyone erupts into cheers again, Hermione included. She’s happy for them, she truly is. It’ll be nice to have another girl in the house, especially for Victoire. James and Teddy will be ganging up on her in no time.

Hermione spots something unusual then. Over James’ head, Ginny and Harry are furiously whispering to each other, obviously disagreeing on something. She’s shaking her head, not listening, and he’s still speaking. Ginny holds her hand up then, as if to silence him, which only angers him further. The scene is quite comical if one takes into account the blissfully oblivious James between them, banging on the table to his own tune.

It’s then she notices Ginny’s plate. It might seem like something insignificant, but Ginny Weasley _loves_ ham. Her mothers cooking is her favourite, but most of all, the smoked ham. Every week, she bundles it onto her plate and eats it with a savagery that Hermione must think is hereditary in Weasley’s. Glancing up the table, Hermione sees that the plate of ham is placed at the far end of the buffet.

There’s only one time when Ginny couldn’t stand the sight of ham.

“You’re pregnant.” She whispers. Ginny hears though, and looks at Hermione in surprise.

Her stomach drops, and food is suddenly unappealing. Pushing her plate away, she finds she’s not the least bit hungry anymore. Still reeling over her inner revelation, she barely sees when Ginny stands up. Calling the attention of the table, Ginny announces what Hermione has known for the past fifty seconds.

She can’t look up from her plate. Not just yet. Tears are blurring her vision, the meal appearing watery and fuzzy in front of her, and Hermione wills them to go away. They can’t see her cry. She can’t cry.

Ron congratulates them from beside her, sounding chirpy and sincere. Hermione feels his hand on her knee though, and the slight pressure he applies. _Hang in there_.

She coughs, turning into some coughing fit, and then wipes under eyes, as if the force of the cough caused her tears. Hermione stands then, “I’m so happy for you guys.”

Her voice is soft, but by the guilt on Harry’s face, and the weakening of Ginny’s voice, she knows they hear.

Hermione gives herself a firm pep talk then. She is one third of the Golden Trio, she is the brightest witch of her age, a Gryffindor lion. She can keep composed long enough to excuse herself. She can do this. No one will make the connection between the two – no one even knows they were trying but Ginny and Harry.

Resolved, once the commotion dies down, Hermione stands, “I’m so sorry, Molly, you’ll have to excuse myself and Ron. I’m not feeling very well. Thank you for the food though, we’ll see you next week.” She walks around to hug the woman, and kisses her on the cheek.

Hermione pulls up Ron as she walks past, who is in the middle of eating. To his credit, Ron doesn’t protest, as would be the norm, and rises complacently. Once they say goodbye to everyone, Ron gets their jackets, and they make their way to the door.

Molly calls out after them, “Oh, be careful, Hermione! We might have a _third_ grandchild pending, hmm?”

She hears the laughter from the table, but her voice is stuck in her throat. Hermione thinks the sob will make it out before a laugh will. Standing at the front door, Ron suddenly pulls her into his embrace. He holds her tightly, but carefully, as if she’s a fragile doll. Like he’s trying to protect her from everyone, and Hermione just wants to cry.

“Hermione!” She hears someone call out, and hastily, Hermione rubs at her eyes. Then she realises who it is calling her: Ginny.

Logically, she shouldn’t feel angry. She should be happy, she should genuinely and truthfully congratulate them. None of those fuzzy, happy feelings are in her heart right now though; there’s only a bitter blackness.

Ginny appears resigned to a fight, because Hermione would recognise that look anywhere. The determined Weasley look – it’s almost a constipated look, she thinks wryly. So there.

“Look, Hermione, I know this isn’t the best timing, but we didn’t plan it and _Merlin,_ the last thing we want to do is hurt you. You have to know that, right? Ron, you know that, don’t you?” Ginny says, almost pleading, but not apologetic enough.

Hermione massages her temple, not in the mood for this, “I know you didn’t plan it, Ginny. How wonderful for you. You get pregnant even when you’re _not trying,”_ She says brightly, sarcastically.

“I’m sorry, I know this is hard for you. But you’re my brother and my friend – you guys mean the world to us and…”

“Come on, Ginny,” Ron says, shaking his head, “Just leave it. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Reluctantly, Hermione touches her friends arm. Tears still shine in her eyes, and she has to bite her lip to stop the trembling, “He’s right. Goodbye, Ginny.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now. Thanks for reading. I'll post again in a couple of days, or tomorrow if the story gleans a good few readers.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own HP or "Strong" by London Grammar. I forgot to say it in the last chapter, so I also don't own "All I Want" by Kodaline. Both fantastic songs.
> 
> CN.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there. I hope you enjoyed that (as much as one can enjoy all that bundle of angst) and please let me know what you thought. I'm going to upload the first two chapters to get the ball rolling. I've completed the story already, it's 5 chapters long, so no need to worry about updates.
> 
> It's my first foray into HGRW, traditionally not a ship of mine, and into AO3.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments would be much appreciated.  
> CN.


End file.
